


The Box

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Character Death, M/M, Memory Loss, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the memories Barty has left of his boyhood lover fits in a shoebox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Box

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Коробка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267093) by [Kollega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kollega/pseuds/Kollega)



**1994**

He runs up the stairs and crawls under his bed, emerging with a battered shoebox. In the excitement of the past two weeks Barty had forgotten about it, and now he scolds himself. It's the only thing left in the house which he cares about. He knows he's lucky to have it anymore; he'd buried it in the garden before going with Bellatrix to the Longbottoms' house, and a few years ago, in one of his moments of lucidity, he had Winky dig it back up without his father's knowledge.

 

It's full of trinkets, most of them common enough: a school tie, the green and silver faded, ruined by a bloodstain; a number of white ash twigs; a cigarette case with the gilding wearing off. Things that many people have at some point in their lives, but rarely keep past their usefulness. Others things are more telling, though—an old, silver peridot ring; a bundle of letters, opened and read a hundred times; a number of photographs of a small, dark teenager; and a single picture of the two of them together.

 

Of all of them, Barty thinks the last is the most valuable. There are two only pictures of them together in existence: in this one, they're sitting next to one another, and the other boy had taken his hand a moment before. Barty remembered invoking a smile out of the his companion right as the camera went off—a real smile, laughing, not like the perfect, icy ones that he normally wore for the public. The other photograph, which Barty had taken by surprise, is hidden somewhere in a huge, old house, its occupants having long since died.

 

The Dark Lord told Barty that he won't need anything, that he'll be using the old Auror's things. But he needs this. He's afraid that without this, he'll forget.

 

The year in Azkaban nearly destroyed Barty, and he knows that he was damaged by it. Even now there are times when things don't quite fit, and he can't always remember things anyone should know. Words, names of things; while he can now copy handwriting, he has trouble on his own, and he can no longer multiply two- and three-digit numbers in his head.

 

When he was snuck out he had few memories of this other boy, none of them good—he remembered him disappearing and the anxiety that came with it, and being positive that his father had something to do with it. He remembered when he was declared legally dead. His father never mourned him, never put any effort into finding him at all, and Barty is sure that it's because his father knew what happened from the very first—somehow, all of this is _his_ fault.

 

Everything good he had to struggle to remember, and he knows he might not if it weren't for this box.

 

 

**1977**

 

“Look, Reg! It's a ' _P_ '—'P' as in ' _Potions_.'”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Regulus snapped, glaring at his laughing friend. “It wasn't my fault. If it hadn't been a practical exam, it would have been fine.”

 

“Why on earth would anyone give a written exam for potions? It's completely useless if it's _in theory_. Theory doesn't make your potion for you.” Barty laughed. “You should have let me help you.”

 

“Get help from a younger student for a subject I know? I think _not._ ”

 

“There's no shame in it. Anyway, it's not like it's your worst grade.”

 

“Oh, God,” Regulus said, closing his eyes. “What did I get in Herbology?”

 

“What do you _think_ you got?”

 

“I got a 'T,' didn't I?”

 

“You wouldn't have if you weren't such a _girl_ ,” Barty said, letting the parchment fall between them.

 

“...It's messy.”

 

“Well, don't worry, you got an 'O' in most everything else.”

 

“ _Most_ everything?” Grey eyes opened to look at him inquisitively.

 

“There was an 'E' in Divinations.”  
 

“Oh, well...” the darker boy shrugged. “It's a soft science, anyway. How would you like a souvenir?”

 

Barty perked up. “Souvenir? Like...a gift?”

 

“Here.” Regulus dropped a gold cigarette case on the table. “My great-uncle sent this to me as an early 'congratulations' gift. Seems he missed the memo that I can't actually _smoke_.”

 

Barty picked it up interestedly. Regulus was rich and over-privileged. This meant that he usually got gifts that normal people could never afford and often didn't appreciate them as much as most people would. Of course, Barty didn't smoke either, but he had a weakness for things that were shiny. He was sure he could find a use for it.

 

“Can't?” he asked. “Or won't?”

 

“Didn't I tell you?” Barty looked at his friend. Twisting the heavy ring on his finger, Regulus said, “I was born a month early, so my lungs are underdeveloped. Or did you think I was small because of some recessive gene buried deep in the Black bloodline?”

 

“Unwilling to wait the full nine months, huh?” Barty flashed a smile. “I always knew you were secretly rebellious. I might not like you so much if you were always so well-behaved.”

 

~*~

 

“Ouch!”

 

Regulus sighed. “I _told_ you to be careful.”

 

“I was!”

 

Barty poked the glass stuck in his hand and gave a hiss. A bottle had broken in Regulus' bag earlier that day, and the older boy didn't have the time to search it out. When Barty asked to borrow a quill, he'd warned the blonde to about it. Barty, never one to be delicate about anything, simply dug through the bag. And now he had a chunk of glass deep in his palm.

 

“Here.” Regulus sat next to Barty and took his hand. “Close your eyes.”

 

“I know what you're trying to do,” Barty said forcefully. “It won't—ow!”

 

Regulus held up the glass he had pulled out while his friend was distracted, face smug. Barty glared, and tugged his hand back. It was bleeding fairly badly. He poked at it, which made it even worse. The darker boy grabbed his hand again and tugged off his school tie. Carefully, he pressed one end onto the cut and wound the rest tightly around his palm.

 

“That'll stop it until we get you to Madam Pomphrey.” He looked surprised at Barty's confused expression. “What?”

 

“You just ruined an article of clothing over me.”

 

“It's just a tie, not like I can't afford another,” Regulus said. “Your hand is more important.”

 

Barty clenched his hand around the tie and pulled it to his stomach. They stared at each other for a few minutes before the younger boy leaned in and pressed his lips to Regulus'. At first the other boy froze, startled, but soon warmed up the to idea, moving his lips against Barty's. Suddenly, Regulus pulled away.

 

“We shouldn't do this here,” he said. “I can't be seen.”

 

Barty understood. There were a number of things that were social suicide for Slytherins, and this was one of them. And Regulus was the only son of an extremely powerful pure-blood family; there were expectations which he _had_ to uphold. Besides, the last word in the first statement, _here_ , promised more to come.

 

~*~

 

The Slytherin Quidditch team returned soaking wet, but triumphant. Barty watched Regulus walk into the common room, broom resting on his shoulder. His normally neat black hair was plastered to his flushed face, and Barty found him oddly beautiful in his dishevelment; it was a reminiscent of what the older boy looked like after love.

 

Regulus was well-liked among the Slytherins, and if not liked, then at least admired, and the rest of the House wanted a party. The team, especially Regulus, were trying to escape long enough to shower and change. Barty slipped down the hallway to the boys' dorms and showers. Opening a door, he checked to see that the room was empty and waited for them to pass. He caught Regulus' arm and dragged the darker boy into the room, slamming the door shut.

 

The older boy made a noise of pleasure as Barty locked his mouth onto his. A gloved hand made its way into blonde hair, and the arm with the broomstick began to lower. Without detaching his mouth from Regulus', Barty reached down and snapped a few twigs off the broom. He was immediately pushed back.

 

“Why the hell did you do that?” Regulus asked angrily.

 

Barty grinned. “I wanted a piece of that broomstick. That way, when I'm old and they've stopped making Silver Arrows years ago, I'll be able to say that I still own part of one.”

 

“Why you _bloody arse_ ,” Regulus laughed. “Just you wait—people are going to start realizing what good brooms they are. They'll make a comeback.”

 

“Uh-huh, sure.” Barty leaned forward and kissed him again, murmuring against his lips, “I think we should have a celebration of our own later tonight. A _private_ celebration...”

 

Regulus made a noise of assent. “I'll tell you what, I'll sneak you into the Prefects' bathroom.”

 

“That sounds like a _wonderful_ plan.”

 

~*~

 

He could tell Regulus, who was reclined on his bed reading, was trying to ignore him has he clicked the camera shutter again. Barty was trying to get his attention, but the older boy wasn't going to rise to the bait. He stopped suddenly, camera still half-raised, as he ran the word through is head again. _Boy_.

 

How long had he been thinking like that? Regulus wasn't a _boy_. _Boys_ were fourteen-year-olds who took you on awkward dates, held hands, kissed their dates somewhat shyly as they dropped them off at their front doors. It was nearly a year since they became lovers, and now Regulus was a man in the legal sense as well as the figurative. A young man, but a man.

 

Noticing Regulus peering over the edge of his book with one thin eyebrow raised, Barty took another picture. Regulus sighed.

 

“And here I thought you were done wasting my film.”

 

“Art isn't wasting film!”

 

“Art requires some sort of technique,” Regulus said. “Now give me my camera back.”

 

The blonde grinned but didn't move. Regulus raised a hand.

 

“Barty,” he said, slowly. “Give me the camera.”

 

Barty took another picture, this time just to tick his older friend off.

 

“Barty...”

 

“Reg...”

 

“Bartemius Crouch, Jr, give me the camera.”

 

Barty lowered camera in shock, blue eyes wide. “...You  _ didn't _ ...”

 

“I think you'll find I did. Now give it back, or I will _take_ it back.”

 

He threw the item in question at Regulus, who caught it with both hands. Of course he did, he was a seeker. Eye-hand coordination was second nature. His lover patted the mattress.

 

“Come here, I'll make this actually worth your while.”

 

Barty jumped onto the bed and crawled over excitedly, but was confused when Regulus moved to set the camera up. Then he moved to sit against the headboard, motioning for Barty to join him. Getting the idea, the blonde came to sit next to him, and got a happy surprise when Regulus' fingers entwined with his own. Regulus had his wand tucked discreetly next to him to make the camera go off, and Barty noticed that he wore his  _ photograph _ smile.

 

A second before he cast the spell, Barty stuck his nose in dark hair and kissed the flesh behind his ear. Regulus gave a noise of surprise, then a laugh as the shutter clicked. Perfect—it wasn't fair to have the Public Smile in a picture of the two of them.

 

The blonde rolled over to push Regulus flat onto the bed. Instead of simply snogging him, the way he normally might, he just looked at the face, so different from his own, white and smooth—the Blacks were an un-freckled bunch, and Barty had counted a total of fourteen on Regulus, none of which were on his face. Gently, he drew a thumb along a long, dark eyebrow, across a sharp cheekbone, down to Regulus' lips, causing his lover to close his eyes and smile softly.

 

Lowering his head to draw lips across Regulus' neck, he murmured, “God, I want you so badly...”

 

Regulus laughed. “What are you talking about? You already  _ have _ me.”

 

Barty sat up suddenly. “Do...do you really mean that?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“What about when you get married?” Barty asked. “What about your wife.”

 

Regulus shook his head. “No, Barty.  _ You're _ the one that has me. You'll always be the one who will.”

 

~*~

 

They had discussed Regulus' eventual marriage in the past, but when Christmas came around it began to become a real worry. The idea of sharing his beautiful, dark lover was becoming increasingly unappealing. The year before he had stayed at Hogwarts with Barty over the holidays; with nearly everyone gone, there was little worry about showing affection. This year though, Regulus returned home, saying with some distaste that this parents wanted to start introducing him to girls.

 

Now Barty lay somewhat miserably on his bed, sleeve pushed up and fingering the old tie wrapped around his wrist. It was the same one that Regulus had used to wrap his hand the year before when it was cut on glass. The one that was tied on his hand only a few moments before they kissed the first time.

 

Regulus knew that Barty had hung onto it, still wore it from time to time. He would laugh and tell the blonde to just get rid of it already. It was old and ruined.  _ No, _ Barty would say.  _ It's mine _ . It was his the same way the cigarette case was.

 

Now, feeling a little lonely, he lay down and rested his cheek against the cool silk on his wrist.

 

On Christmas morning, a few days later, the pile by his bed seemed smaller than ever. He never got much. As usual he received several things from his mother, who claimed that it was from both her and his father; Barty knew that this wasn't true, but he appreciated the sentiment anyway. Near the bottom was a small box with a note from Regulus.

 

_ Barty, _

 

_ I want you to have this. It's a lot better than wearing that stupid tie all the time. _

 

_ Yours forever, _

 

_ Regulus Arcturus Black _

 

Even without the note, he would have known who gave him the ring. Barty didn't think he'd ever seen Regulus take it off, even when he went to shower. Even when they made love. The dark olive stone glittered in the light as he turned it in his hand. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, still not taking his eyes off the heavy ring; he was suddenly gasping, feeling like he wasn't getting enough air with each breath.

 

He couldn't wear it in the open, too many people knew whose ring it was; even if they were open about their relationship, there was a difference between fooling around and  _ this _ . Still, he was fairly sure that he could come up with a chain or something so that he could have it underneath his shirt.

 

He folded the note up again and dug in his trunk for his cigarette case. Carefully, he tucked the paper into the clip with the other notes Regulus had given him with gifts. He smiled slightly;  _ yours forever. _

 

 

**1995**

Alastor still being in the hospital wing, Albus is doing his friend a favor by packing all his things for him. It's one less thing for the old Auror to worry about. Walking through the bedroom, he pauses as he sees a box which seems out of place among Alastor's things. It's worn-out cardboard, not at all up to his friend's standard of security.

 

Slowly, carefully, he opens it, then frowns at the assortment of object in it. No, this certainly belonged to Crouch. But not to him alone.

 

A flash of memories comes back, of a summer nearly a hundred years ago, filled with curly blonde hair and a bright smile, constant companionship and secret kisses. He presses the lid of the box down and holds it there with one hand, as if it might open again on its own. This didn't belong to the cruel, delusional man Crouch had become. It belonged to a boy who was in love. Closing his eyes, he frowns thoughtfully.

 

No man, no matter how evil or cruel or sick—and the he  _ was _ sick—deserves what Barty Crouch suffered. Likewise, no person deserves the newspapers to get a hold of something like this, to poke and prod and analyze until they've twisted love into  _ obsession _ and  _ perversity _ . Sometimes it's for the best that the world doesn't see the best part of a man.

 

Albus comes to a decision then, and picks up the box, tucking it under his arm. He's doing some traveling this summer anyhow; what's one more stop on his trip?

_  
_

_ He thinks,  Regulus Black's grave shouldn't remain empty _ .


End file.
